When It's Time To Live And Let Die
by Boyfrom0z
Summary: No one told Johnny that Jimmy had died that night. He doesn't even know to miss him until the next day. Even when someone does tell him, he can't believe it. Saint Jimmy can't die.  Character death - or post-character death. semi-SaintJesus


Warnings: Suicide and some sort of graphic descriptions

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><p>No one told Johnny that Jimmy had died.<p>

No one even knew he'd shot himself until the next day, which was odd.

This was Saint Jimmy.

Saint Jimmy, the Dionysian drug god of San Francisco, the constant center of blood-shot eyed attention, had killed himself alone by the bay, seen by no one, or at least no one who was talking.

Johnny had somehow staggered back to the room he'd been living in with Jimmy and had fallen into unconsciousness. It only occurred to him when he awoke at nearly one the following afternoon that Jimmy was even gone. It didn't really bother him that much. In fact, he was mildly glad that Jimmy was absent. For one thing, it meant that no not-particularly-consensual sex had taken place the previous night. It was only several hours later that Johnny even began to wonder where Jimmy might have gotten to and it still wasn't even until that night when they usual went out that Johnny started to think that something might have happened.

His first thought was the Jimmy had done the thing Johnny had been dreading and abandoned him. In response to this thought, he let out a very impressive stream of swearing. Blazing with furry, Johnny threw on some clothing and headed out to Jimmy's usual nighttime haunts where he met his oh-so-eager customers. However, when Johnny arrived at the first of the alleys, he was met only by desperate looks and hungry words.

_Where is Saint Jimmy? Where is our savior?_

Jesus had no answer for these lost disciples and moved on to the next alley.

After several hours, Johnny had found no sign of Jimmy. Running out of ideas, he found himself near the bay. He stood looking out at the water until a familiar voice he'd thought he'd never hear again jarred him from his exhausted reverie.

"He's dead."

Johnny turned slow, red eyes to her.

"Jimmy," Whatsername said, "he's dead."

"What?" Johnny asked slowly.

"He shot himself," she said matter-of-factly.

"No." His voice was heavy with confusion.

Whatsername raised an eyebrow.

"Not Jimmy," he said, shaking his head and turning back to the water. "If he was gunna shoot himself, it'd be with a bang." He gave a weak laugh at the bad and unintended pun. "He'd make sure everybody knew." He shook his head again, almost fondly.

Almost.

It was only the drugs.

"I know you want me away from him," said Johnny, his voice suddenly serious, his eyes still gazing out over the bay.

"I'm not lying," she told his back.

"I didn't say you were."

"He fucked you up. He practically killed you. He would have killed you," she said. "He does that. Did that. Sucked people in. He was a black hole."

"He was a fucking god."

"And you were his slave."

Johnny was silent.

"Give it up, Johnny. He had you and you know it. But he's gone now." She looked his back up and down coldly. "Are you free?"

Johnny turned to look at her, trying to ignore the many addictions crying out inside him, lions begging to be fed, the strongest and loudest of which was the ghost of Saint Jimmy.

Whatsername reached out, took Johnny's wrist and pushed up his sleeve. She stared at the track marks.

"Banded and everything." She threw his arm down in disgust.

"But he's gone now," said Johnny in a small voice that didn't dare to be hopeful.

"I'm through with you," she said flatly. "Don't even bother."

"But-," he began.

"I have better things to do with my life. Like actually live. Like actually change something."

She glared at him and he at least had the decency to look ashamed of himself.

"Good home, Johnny. You're through here." With that, she turned and left him standing alone by the bay.

He never saw her again.

Johnny stared at the cold, grey water and wondered if it really was true. He didn't think she'd lie to him nor did he think that she'd tell him something she didn't know for a fact was true. He started walking to get his brain working again. The residual effects of the drugs that were constantly in his system in some amount pumped through his veins as he moved.

He didn't think he was actually going to find Jimmy. That sort of shit only happened in movies and anyway, he realized, Jimmy wasn't _really_ dead. He was Saint Jimmy; he couldn't be really dead. Not really. Johnny knew Jimmy, knew he was right around some dark corner waiting to scare the crap out of Johnny. He had spread the rumor himself as some stupid, fucked up joke. It was just the sort of thing he'd do. He was probably covered in fake blood too. Jimmy was just sick like that, so sick.

Feeling better, Johnny kept walking. The near-constant, drug-induced haze that had so briefly dissipated at Whatsername's presence had returned to his brain and everything seemed much more Okay than it really was. Maybe he was happier this way. Maybe it was just easier.

Johnny spotted the body and waited for a moment to see if Jimmy's plan was to jump up and scare him now. After a few minutes of waiting and suppressed, sickly giggles, Johnny decided Jimmy wasn't going to move till he got closer so he took a few steps nearer, coming within a few yards of the form that became, very clearly, Jimmy's apparently dead body.

Jimmy's face was towards him and Johnny could see the mess of blood oozing out from beneath the check that was pressed to the dirty ground. There was a small, dark thing in his hand, the mettle catching the light of the nearest streetlamp. It was a gun. His eyes were open.

"Found you," Johnny said, giving Jimmy's stomach a little poke with the toe of his shoe. "Found you, Jimmy."

Jimmy did not move.

"Whatsername said you were dead, but I knew she was wrong. I knew you were just playing, Jimmy."

Jimmy did not respond.

"It's not nice to leave all those people like that, Jimmy. They need you, Jimmy, you know they need you."

Jimmy did not speak.

"Aw, come on, Jimmy! 'S not funny, not really. Come on, get up." He kicked him again. "Get up, Jimmy!"

Jimmy did not get up.

"Okay, I get it. Ha, ha. Very funny. Now move! Move, Jimmy, move! You're freaking me out, man! Come on, at least blink. Blink, Jimmy, blink!"

Jimmy did not blink.

"Jimmy!" Johnny kicked Jimmy much harder.

Jimmy moved.

As if in slow motion, Jimmy's body rolled over onto his back. The last thing to move was his head. Stuck to the pavement with dried blood, Jimmy's face resisted the momentum of his body, but with agonizing slowness it too moved and Johnny saw the right side of Jimmy's head.

Johnny lurched back, his body trying to scream, but instead turning and throwing up all over the dirty pavement.

He couldn't look.

Once his stomach had emptied itself and his dry heaves had subsided, his brain came slowly back online.

He had a fleeting image of himself carrying Jimmy's bloody, mutilated body into the alley and being faced with Jimmy's disciples, his desperate mourners, tearing at their own flesh when they discovered with their own red eyes that the rumors were true, that their god had fallen. It would be so glorious, the ending that Jimmy deserved, the ending he should have had. Johnny could see himself standing the flickering streetlight at the mouth of the alley, the body in his arms, the roles reversed, he the saint and Jimmy the savior.

But then the image was gone and Johnny was alone in the dark with the mangled thing that had once been Saint Jimmy.

He almost threw up again.

Johnny looked around a saw a vandalized pay phone. He staggered towards it and found that seemed to still be functional. He fumbled in his pockets and found a small amount change, most of which he dropped trying to get out. It took him several tries to get it into the little slot. His fingers were shaking and couldn't aim the small bits of mettle at the grimy hole. Finally he heard the dial tone and he punched in the numbers he'd known by heart since third grade. It was the second number he'd ever memorized.

"Will?" he groaned.

"Johnny?" asked the voice uncertainly.

"Yeah," Johnny whispered.

"Johnny! Are you Okay, man? You sound like shit. Dude, I haven't heard from you in for fucking ever! How are you doing? What's been happen-?"

"I'm coming home," said Johnny in a dead voice.

"What?"

"I'm coming home."

"Why? When are you getting here? Man, wait till I tell everyone that you're-."

The connection died.

Maybe Johnny was out of change. Maybe he was passed out cold on the pavement, still as Jimmy. Will didn't remember to ask and Johnny didn't know.

Johnny would never talk about that night, not that anyone ever asked him what had happened. No one at home knew about Jimmy and Johnny never told them. He remembered it all too clearly, though, despite the drugs. It haunted his dreams and even when he tired to shove it from his mind he often found himself thinking about it.

How long had it taken for the police to find Jimmy's body? What had happened to it? Had anyone clamed it or had Saint Jimmy become John Doe and been buried –where? Johnny did not know what happened to unclaimed bodies. Sometimes he thought he should have gone back to the city just to tell them who Jimmy was, not that Johnny really knew. All he could have told them was that he'd gone by "Saint Jimmy" and had been a drug lord or whatever. Johnny had no idea who Jimmy's family was or if he even had one. So Johnny did nothing. Jimmy was dead and that was that.

Still Johnny woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, thinking he had breathed in Jimmy's smell or felt his touch or heard his voice only to realize he was alone and Saintless; that the crucifixion had happened, the third day had passed, and there was no resurrection coming.


End file.
